


i was expecting anything but this

by artistsRevival



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Sadstuck, Self-Harm, happy end, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistsRevival/pseuds/artistsRevival
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro makes a shocking discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was expecting anything but this

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry im so sorry
> 
> inspired by this tumblr comic --> http://necrohomocon.tumblr.com/post/42654942292/dave-i-had-no-idea-im-so-sorry
> 
> dissapointingly the tumblr account is not active so

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re honestly close to tears for the third time in your life.

The first was when you lost your first boyfriend. You were seventeen.

The second was when your little bro almost died. Some fucker didn’t look before he gunned through a red light. You were twenty-three, he was ten.

Now - well, you suppose you should start over. 

Today, you were scrolling online, as per usual, when you came across an article titled, "When You Should Worry About Your Teen." You decided to read it, for shits and giggles. Dave seemed fine. A little shit, yes, but what’s new?

Until you started to worry. "Is your teen spending a large portion of their day in their room? Are they not coming out for meals, instead opting to hide away? Are they irritable, or snappish?"

Dave hadn’t eaten dinner with you for a month or two.

You kept scrolling. Its final words were, "You should look through their drawer soon. Be prepared for the worst, and remember to be patient and understanding with your teen." So that’s what you did.

It was two-fifty, and Dave would be home in twenty minutes. You had to make this fast. You shut your laptop and flashstepped into your little brother’s room, carefully avoiding any errant smuppets laying about. He left his door unlocked.

You stepped quickly over to one of the drawers, heart beating a bit too fast for your liking. In this one, all you found was t-shirts and a magazine. Good. The next one yeilded similar results.

Until you got to a small one in his desk. The top of the drawer was pencils and miscillaneous bullshit, papers and the like. But what was at the bottom brought you to where you are now.

You brush aside a comb and a bottle of toothpaste. Your heart stops for a beat.

Lying at the bottom of the drawer are two razor blades and an Xacto knife. All three had small, rusty stains on them. _No-_

"Shit." Your voice is hoarse. You didn’t know, you didn’t notice - how the fuck could you have not noticed? You’re a terrible brother, a terrible guardian - the boy wears long sleeves in the middle of summer, how could you not have guessed, how, _how-_

You hear the front door open, and you quickly palm the blades and put them in your pocket. In a blink, you’re flashstepping to the front door. 

"Bro, you home - oof," is all Dave manages to get out before you’re pulling him in close to your body, wrapping your arms around his painfully skinny shoulders.

"I’m so fucking sorry," you whisper into his pale blond hair. He freezes.

"Bro," his voice is a muffled whisper, he sounds _terrified_ \- "what do you mean?"

"I -" you choke up. "I’m sorry I didn’t see, I’m such a terrible fuckin’ brother," you whisper back. He pushes at your chest.

"Bro, what the fuck are you talking about?" His voice has raised in pitch.

"I - I found ’em, Dave." It comes out as a gruff bark. You’re trying not to cry, because you haven’t cried in three years. You don’t intend to start now, when your little bro needs you most.

"What - oh." His voice is so small, so terrified, you’re honestly terrified, too. "You - oh."

"Shit, lil’ bro, I’m so fuckin’ sorry," you whisper again, looking him in the eyes through two layers of shades. "I’m so sorry." It’s the only thing going through your mind right now. 

"Bro - shit, fuck, it’s not your fault, oh god - what the fuck did I do, I’m -" he cuts off. You can hear the end of the sentence in your mind. _\- a piece of shit, why did I leave them there._

"Then who’s? Why?" You take his arm - careful, so careful that one might think he’d break if you so much as pulled gently - and lead him to the couch, plunking down beside him. He feels so _skinny._

He leans against the arm of the couch, feet up beneath him, curling in on himself. "I dunno," he starts, "I dunno, anymore, honestly. I mean it started whenever I’d fuck something simple up - god, I’m such an idiot - but it just kinda... got worse, you know? It was like I couldn’t go a single fuckin’ day without hearing bullshit screamed in my head that I’m worthless, that I should just throw myself off a fuckin’ bridge, you’d all be better off without me." He pauses. "It was kinda inevitable, I guess, I mean come on. It’s honestly like a sort of retreat, a secret that’s kinda nice to indulge in at night but when you can’t roll your fuckin’ sleeves up if it’s hot, you regret every fuckin’ mark. And the cuts, you know - it’s like, you start, and you’re crying your eyes out, but by cut number fifteen you can’t feel anything but that fuckin’ blade, you can’t see anything but your blood, and you can’t stop for a good while, either. It stops the feelings, you know, from coming up and drowning me."

You’re silent for awhile after that. "Show me." 

He kind of stares at you, before holding out his stick-thin arms and rolling the loose sleeves of his dark red sweater up. You feel like puking.

There are bandages wrapped around his arms from wrist to elbow. They’re obviously a few days old, stained red in places, and they’re unwound near the elbow, exposing slashes two inches long. Thank god they’re not too deep. Thank god he’s still with you.

He slowly starts unwrapping one. You take over, hands shaking. You unwrap his right arm, bit by bit, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a sob. The cuts get worse near the middle of his forearm, three inches in length and deeper than you’re okay with. Some are fresh, some look like they’re a week old, and underneath it all you can see white scars. How long has this been going on?

You remove your shades and set them down beside you two. You slide his off, careful with them, and set them beside yours. 

You can’t hold back a sob at this point. The gasp leaves you before you can stop it, and Dave looks surprised for half a second as you lunge forward and wrap your arms around him, shaking ever so slightly. How did it come to this?

His thin arms lock behind your back and he’s shaking, he’s sobbing now, right along with you, and you can make out muffled words. "I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so fuckin’ sorry -" and you can feel your heart break. You feel wet spots spreading on your chest and, horrifyingly, on your back, where his unwrapped arm clenches tightly. 

When you’ve both cried your fill, in a very un-Striderly fashion, you’re left stroking his hair.

"Promise me you’ll try to stop," you whisper. "Promise me."

"Okay," his voice is hoarse, "okay, bro, I will. I promise." 

When you feel his weak smile against your chest, you know he’s gonna be alright.

\----two months later----

Dave’s been hooked up with a therapist. He’s doing a lot better, now, you think. His shirt sleeves are slowly being rolled up, exposing whitening scars, but nothing fresh. He smiles a lot more, cracks jokes like he used to, and he’s eating in the living room with you. 

Dave walks in through the door. His lips are quirked up in a light, unconcious smirk. "Hey, bro," he says.

"Hey, lil’ man." You look up from your laptop. Time to surprise him today. 

"So I’ve been thinkin’," you start - only to be interrupted by a smartass "what a shocker" - "I say we do something about these."

You pull out of your pocket three blades, two from a broken razor and one Xacto knife, long-dry bloodstains upon their surfaces. He quiets.

"Like what?" he asks cautiously.

"How about -" you start. "How about we go throw them off a bridge?" He stares at you. "It’s symbolic," you say, and you shrug.

He has to think for a moment. "Okay," is his answer. "Put them in something, or dull them, or Harley will have my ass for hurting the fish or some shit." 

You grin. "Taken care of." You bend one of the razor blades in half between two fingers, effectively getting rid of the blade. The other gets the same treatment.

Dave grins. "Alright, then. Let’s go." 

You head to the elevator of your apartment, hopping into your car and driving away.

You decided to entrust the blades to Dave for this trip. It’s important for his part in this.

When you get to the bridge over a small river that nobody drives over anymore, you pull off to the side.

"Take the lead, lil’ bro." He stares at the blades for one long moment more and opens the door, climbing out. He’s so careful with those blades.

He climbs up on the side of the bridge, leaning on the rail. You’re behind him. "Thought you should do it," you say quietly.

"Yeah." He stares at them. Then he winds his arm back, slowly, bringing it behind his head and lobbing the Xacto off into the river. It hits the water with a tiny ripple. 

He does the same to the other two.

When he comes down, he looks odd. Preoccupied. 

The faraway look in his eyes looks like healing to you as you hug him and get in the car to drive home.

**Author's Note:**

> i should be sleeping rn


End file.
